


Drank me a pint o’ beer, me grief and tears to smother

by TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide



Category: The Dream SMP (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drunkenness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Immortal Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Immortal Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Has Chronic Pain, Phil is going through it man, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, anyways BITCHES SAD, projection? In MY fic? It’s more likely than you’d think, “I killed my son! Now I’m depressed. #quirky 🤪”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide/pseuds/TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide
Summary: Philza has been a lot of things. He’s been revered as the Angel of Death, an Antarctic Emperor, the Hardcore Master, the list goes on. He was a great man, feared and respected, the greatest of the great.But now... now he’s just the drunkard at the back of the pub.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Drank me a pint o’ beer, me grief and tears to smother

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this video and _immediately_ wrote this fic afterwards so I’m like, legally obligated to advertise it or smth: https://youtu.be/LqJFti2qZ3w go watch it
> 
>   
> Kudos to my writing teacher (mentor? Tutor? Sensei? Idk) for beta reading this for me and basically reteaching me how to write an actual story. You won’t see this but ur a godsend.

The air was musty in the low-lit tavern. Ribbons of acrid smoke wove between the groups of people, all clustered in groups of two or three. It was late, the indecipherable roar of laughter and jokes dying down to an indistinct chatter all around. Gently swinging lamps cast warm light over the quiet games of poker and cards, shining on glistening cups of ale and cheap beer.

In the back of the pub, sat a small, out-of-tune piano. Here, sat a quiet musician, who possibly— in a certain lighting, at the right angle, if you were just desperate enough— could have looked a bit similar to another young musician, one long passed.

Nearby the quiet musician and his piano, lounging on a broken chest and some old crafting tables, surrounded by bottles, sat a man with many titles. The Angel of Death, an Antarctic Emperor, the Hardcore Master, the guy who had lost his five-year hardcore world to a  _baby zombie_ of all things, the last of the winged, the local drunkard, the failed father.

Philza Minecraft, the disgrace.

Seated on his rightful throne of garbage, Philza gestured wildly with his third bottle, the amber alcohol sloshing inside as he laughed, “My first day on the server, I killed my son! It was  _ pogchamp _ , and then I cried.”

Here, he took a long drink from his bottle, tipping back his head to gulp down the cheap beer like a sweet elixir, a wretched liquid to soothe his wretched soul. For a moment, one could see the man he used to be, despite his ratty hair and the stubble on his neck and chin. One could see a leader, a general, one could see elegance shining through the rough exterior.

After a few long seconds, Philza finished off the bottle, letting out a quiet sigh, eyes still closed as he relished in the numbing buzz. For a moment, he looked stately and poised, even _ethereal_ , an otherworldly deity in the midst of mere mortals.

Then Philza opened eyes and laughed a drunken laugh, even going so far as to kick his feet in intoxicated glee, and the moment was broken. Philza Minecraft became the lowly wretch once more.

  
  


Soon, when the night can hardly be called night when the bottles are littered around the quiet musician’s company, the vagabonds and the addicts and the gamblers will begin to start glaring at the giggling alcoholic by the piano. They will think disdainfully to themselves, at least they aren’t  _ that _ far gone, surely they are  _ far _ better than  _ him. _

(Oh, how people love to put others beneath them, if only to make themselves seem just that much higher.)

When the glaring becomes painfully frequent, when Phil’s rambling becomes too passionate, too loud, the quiet musician will gently but firmly escort him out through the side door.

Maybe Philza will resist, trying to stay just a bit longer. Let him finish his bottle, he’d say, just one more. Perhaps the quiet musician could play another song, Philza had always liked his company. Come now, won’t you  _ please? _

Or maybe Philza will let the quiet musician guide him out. Maybe he’ll do it with tears in his eyes. Maybe he’d call the quiet musician by a name that did not belong to him.

Or maybe Philza Minecraft would slink off into the night without a word, proud but unsteady on his feet. Maybe he’d shoot up into the sky with wings that didn’t quite work so well as they used to. Maybe he’d choose to walk home, deciding it wasn’t worth the heat packs and rubbing that would have to come after, his age having come in the form of aching joints and creaky limbs.

(It was his son’s parting gift. In the same explosion that destroyed his county, he damaged his father’s freedom, his pride and joy, the only thing connecting him to his dead culture. Now, Philza could no longer fly free without a price, and End  _knows_ he could no longer fly free without the painful reminder of how he failed his only biological, son.)

Later, when the sun first thinks about perhaps peeking over the edge of the horizon to see the world she had abandoned, Philza will stumble into his house, only to come face to face with another hybrid, this one covered in blood that was not his. This man has many titles as well, some more hefty and glamorous than Philza’s own. The Blood God, the PvP Master, the destroyer of countries, the slayer of governments, the soldier who conquered the world.

The Blade, nothing more than a weapon.

Except, to Philza, the Blade is much  _more_ than that. His brother, perhaps something like his son, his ally, his co-ruler, but above all else, his  _ friend. _

Philza and the Blade will look over each other with a sad, knowing look. One drunk, the other covered in blood, both of them lost,  _ miserable _ souls. And there’ll be a camaraderie in that, a comfort in the thought that, no, maybe they were not so wretched as they thought themselves, if their dear friend was right down with them. They’ll be reminded that even though they’d lost so much, they still had each other, and when the time came and they were ready, maybe they could move on, together.

They will nod to one another then, no judgement, just a sort of solidarity, like when they were nothing but soldiers together, hundreds of years ago, both terrified and broken. But they had made it out of that, and they would make it out of this.

After that brief moment of camaraderie, Philza will stumble off to his room, exhaustion and beer making his steps unsteady. He’ll crash into bed, heeding not the sheets and his dirty, stained clothes. He’ll sleep a fitful sleep, dreaming horrible dreams, of explosions and swords and fighting, of cold nights and cold halls and cold bodies.

But Phil will wake up again, just like he had been doing for centuries. He’ll wake up, and the next day he’ll try to live a bit better, try to heal a bit more. In the end, he’ll return to the low-lit, smoky tavern once again. He’ll return to rambling to a quiet musician, who would look familiar if you were drunk and desperate enough. He’ll return to being the wretch.

But Philza Minecraft will still be alive, and he’ll try to remember that.  For Wilbur.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, bitches sad. 
> 
> Also my tumblr is astronomical-bagel if you wanna follow me,,, haha just kidding,, unless..? 😳😳
> 
> Also! I might make a part 2 of this so stay tuned.


End file.
